Worth of Dragons
by Ramzes
Summary: Once again, war is looming heavily over the Seven Kingdoms, thanks to Aegon IV's wicked ways. Now, it's time to see how much the worthiness of a dragon is worth.


**A/N. This was intended to be a chapter of Foreign Queen but it came out too soon and I decided that it might as well go as a oneshot.**

_Worth of Dragons_

They came at dawn, bristled men of bristled horses, and in the lead, the wheelhouse for the one who could no longer ride.

Prince Baelor was the first one to notice them – he had been awake for a while now and impatiently waiting for someone else to wake up and keep him company. Bored as he was, though, he did not resort to rousing someone. So when he grew tired of pacing his chamber, he got dressed and went to pace the castle instead. He was in one of the towers when he saw the first glint of the weapons.

Without thinking twice, he ran downstairs and burst into his father's bedchamber. Daeron woke up instantly. "Baelor?" he asked sleepily. "Isn't it too early?"

"There are men-at-arms coming," the boy said breathlessly. "I just saw them…"

Daeron sighed, rose and started getting dressed. His son watched him, wide-eyed. "It's the King, isn't it?" he asked.

Daeron didn't give him as much as a look. "Probably," he said. There was no time to explain the situation to a ten-year-old, no matter how smart the boy was.

"What's going on?" Baelor persisted. "I heard that there would be a war with Dorne. Is it why he's coming?"

This time, Daeron gave him a quick look. "You don't need to eavesdrop on other people's conversations, Baelor. All you had to do was ask me."

"Well, I didn't think you'd tell me. If you wanted to, you would have done so on your own," the boy reasoned.

Daeron sighed. "I suppose you're right," he said. "Now go to your room and stay there. Don't go out, no matter what. I mean it, Baelor," he added. "You must stay there, or you'll regret it."

Baelor swallowed and nodded. Usually, they could get away with almost anything from their father. It was his mother who was the disciplinarian in the family. But he could say that now, Daeron was serious. Without a word, he turned and left the bedchamber.

Now, the echo of galloping horses could be heard all through Summerhall. There was a commotion in Daeron's antechamber but when he emerged from the bedchamber, Rogar Redtree had it all under control. Daeron gave him a brief smile that the other man returned.

"Should I accompany you, Your Grace?" he asked.

Daeron shook his head. "No," he replied. "There are certain things one should do alone."

But he still had time before doing them. The men were not so near yet. He stole into his children's rooms. A candle was flickering its last at Aerys' bedside, the thick book he had fallen asleep reading tumbled on the floor. The boy had almost followed the tome and was half-hanging from the bed. Smiling, Daeron came near and straightened him back against the pillows. Aerys murmured something and opened his eyes briefly but saw it was only his father and promptly fell back to sleep.

Rhaegel slept amidst tousled sheets. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow and a smile on his lips, his innocent sleep so deep that small things like thundering horses and hostilities could not disturb him. For a moment, Daeron felt a rush of fear for him. Rhaegel was too mad and too gentle for this world. What he was about to do might harm Rhaegel more than it would do the other children, for he had no means to protect himself.

Aelinor was already awake, her violet eyes black with fear. She, too, must have overheard the whispers in the castle. Baelor, of course, hadn't gone to his rooms as ordered. He had his arm about his sister's shoulders. "Don't be afraid," he was telling her. "Never fear. I will protect you."

Daeron didn't find it in him to scold him for his disobedience.

In Maekar's bedchamber, Myriah rose as soon as he entered. She looked disheveled and weary from the sleepless night but she was composed. "How is he?" Daeron asked and approached the bed. To his relief, his son slept soundly. His colour was good and when Daeron touched the hand lying on the sheets, it was neither icy nor hot to the touch.

Myriah smiled faintly. "He's on the mend. You know how it is with him – a day for an illness to start, a day to rage, and a day to go away, that's it."

Daeron touched her cheek. "Stay here," he said. "Your presence will only anger him more."

"You think he's come in person?" she asked. Despite her best efforts, there was a touch of fear to her voice.

"There is a wheelhouse coming," he said simply.

She clasped his hand, tightly and briefly, and he went out in the hallway.

When he reached the top of the main stairs, they were already there. Daeron recognized the sour-mouthed Gorman Peake, the olive-skinned Tommen Costayne, and the huge Davel Sunderlands, among others. It looked like half of the lords in the Seven Kingdoms had made their way to Summerhall. At seeing him, they all bowed and he stared at them impassively. _We're all pretending that they arrive here at dawn every day_, Daeron thought fleetingly.

Then, the King appeared, preceded by five members of the Kingsguard.

Daeron bowed. "Your Grace," he said and descended the stairs. His smooth face showed nothing of his concerns, nothing of his shock. He hadn't seen his father for over eight moons and he hadn't known it was humanly possible for someone to grow so bloated in such a short period of time. Aegon also seemed to have grown more malicious. Now, _that_ was no surprise.

"Should we go to my chambers?" he asked. "You must be tired after the travel."

He behaved as if he didn't know that each of the lords had come with retainers that could be turned against him at any moment, as if he didn't realize that the presence of the Kingsguard and especially their behavior was an insult against him. They were looking around as if they expected an enemy to show up and attack the King – in Daeron's home. And they were very careful not to look him in the eye.

To his surprise, Aegon nodded and waved the lords off. Daeron saw them retreating towards the great hall and resisted the childish urge to order the servants not to bring them any refreshments. They were not _guests_.

In a smaller hall in Daeron's private chambers, Aegon took a seat into a huge chair that he barely fit in. The young man filled a tall goblet with wine and Aegon downed it in one gulp. _Now that was impressive_, Daeron thought and stifled a sudden laugh before refilling the goblet and sitting down.

"Where's Myriah?" Aegon asked and smirked. "I expected her to greet me here, if not downstairs. Finally grown tired of her clinging ways and sent her to her own bedchamber, eh?"

"Not in the least," Daeron said evenly. "Maekar has been ill. She spent the night in his bedchamber, so she's quite tired and in no state to meet you."

"What a pity," Aegon murmured and Daeron was pretty sure he was referring to the fact that Daeron was still holding to one woman, and a stubborn Dornishwoman at that. "Well, we don't really need her for that."

He drank deeply and set the goblet aside. "As you know, Dorne is in turmoil."

Daeron's heart started pounding but he answered calmly, "Is it so?"

"It is," Aegon grunted. "After Mors Martell's death it was bereft of a strong and capable leader and stuck with a minor boy-prince."

Daeron knew that quite well. He also knew that Dorne wasn't in turmoil. His father would do his best to make it so, though.

"It is our chance to set things right," Aegon said. "Myriah is Mors Martell's sister. She's entitled to the regency."

Daeron looked at the rosy tinge and orange flames of dawn in the window behind Aegon and answered, "In other circumstances, she would have been. You know as well as I do that she relinquished any rights when she wed me. That was a part of the marriage contract, as you well know."

"Yes," Aegon huffed. "A part that fool Baelor should never have allowed. And my father didn't even try to stop him. It can be mended."

A part of the contract or not, Daeron knew that Dorne would never accept any claims of Myriah's, for not only she had relinquished any rights but it would be in fact Aegon commanding her. It was well known that the Iron Throne had long wished to gain Dorne. Such claims would only be taken as a more devious means to achieving higher influence in Dornish affairs. Aegon knew it, too, but he didn't truly seek to press any claims. He was going to declare war no matter what. He didn't even need a reason to make it look more legitimate. He just wanted to severe the tie between Daeron and Myriah, on one side, and Dorne, on the other. Should they be seen backing him, they would forever win the distrust of Dorne, dooming their plans of peace and expanding to everyone's profit. The realm his grandfather had devoted his life to would be thrown into another age of war and bursts of hostilities. His dream of a great, united Westeros would turn to nothing. And it was the smallfolk who would pay the price.

"It really can't," Daeron said. "Ask the Master of Law, if you must. It was signed by the King of the Seven Kingdoms. I placed my signature, too. I cannot break my word."

Aegon's eyes narrowed. His mouth twisted in an ugly grimace. "Your word," he echoed. "The Seven help me, it is as if I'm listening to Aemon!"

Daeron placed a hand at the table, feigning composure. "That's all I can tell you. I am sorry but your suggestion is not defensible."

"It wasn't a suggestion," Aegon barked.

Daeron shrugged. "Whatever."

Aegon slipped a hand into his mantle and produced an unsealed parchment that he slid down the table towards Daeron. "Read it," he ordered.

For a moment, the young man thought of refusing but there was no use of additional antagonizing. He knew what he would find in those lines and didn't bother to light a candle. The dawn was enough to make the words out, although with some effort. Myriah's claims… Aegon's wish to uphold her rights… really, nothing unexpected. War and turmoil. Destruction of the achievements of a whole lifetime, his grandfather's.

He looked up. "You cannot really expect that I'd sign this mummer's farce on either mine behalf or Myriah's?"

"You will," Aegon snapped.

Daeron leaned back. "I don't think so. Anyway, you don't really need my signature. Is it true what I'm hearing?" He knew he should stop but something inside him made him ask. He recognized it for what it was, a reaction to the anxiety of the last months, but he could not stop it. "About wooden dragons that would accompany the army?"

Aegon took his goblet back and drank. "Wood and iron," he confirmed. "They will conquer Dorne, leaving nothing…"

_I'd like to see it_, Daeron thought. _That's something that dragon made of… dragons could not achieve and you think you'll do it with your wood and iron monstrosities?_ Again, laughter rose in him and this time, he couldn't quite stifle it.

It was only the faintest chuckle but it was enough to send Aegon bursting out of his chair, staggering under his own unbalanced weight. He grabbed the table, his eyes dark with rage, bearing into Daeron's. "How dare you mock me!" he hissed. "How dare you question my orders! I am now the King of Westeros, not the fools you so admire, and by the Seven, you'll do as I say!"

That was it. The answer. The last piece of the puzzle that he had never been able to quite grasp. The motivation behind Aegon's actions. Daeron had always known it had not been hatred alone.

His father wasn't trying to vanquish him. He was trying to vanquish a memory.

It was strange, how clear it was all now. All that Daeron had witnessed, all his intuition told him, all that Myriah felt towards her goodfather, all that Aegon had subjected his sister-wife to – it was all a small puffs of the black cloud that was envy. Envy was as strong as hatred, and maybe even more.

What had he achieved? He had only brought ruin to the kingdom, and himself. He was no better than the Young Dragon and he knew it. At least the first Daeron had died in his prime while Aegon had brought forth his own premature decay. And while smallfolk might believe all those tales about Viserys poisoning the blessed king Baelor, those who mattered knew the truth. The comparison between father and son was sharp – and it was not in Aegon's favour.

First, he had turned his ire on everyone Viserys had ever loved. Then, he had thrown away his father's strict course of maintaining as much financial stability as possible, drowning them into debts to the Iron Bank that Baelor's sons would probably have to pay still. And now he was forsaking Viserys' greatest achievement, the peace with Dorne after the Young Dragon's disastrous war, and trying to drag Daeron along, preventing peace from re-forging for generations to come. Only envy could be the explanation of his behavior. He could now erase a lifetime, destroy the man whose shade even in death was greater than any sparkle Aegon could possibly light, ruin a legacy that he could never attain himself, for even this overweening attempt of his would not bring Dorne down. Yes, he hated and despised Daeron – but it was Viserys he strove to squelch. And to do it, he needed to bring Daeron down.

Aegon brought himself under control, returned to his chair. "You will sign," he said coldly.

"I won't," Daeron said evenly, patiently, as if he was explaining to Maekar for a hundredth time that no matter how many times he begged him, Daeron would not indulge his whim to let him ride an unbroken horse.

"Oh but you will." Aegon's voice was now silky, bringing shiver to Daeron's spine. "For if you do not, I'll take Aelinor and Maekar from you. Indeed, I don't think Summerhall is the best place for them anyway. Let's see… Baelor is as Dornish in his ways as he is in his looks. Aerys thinks books are all there is to life. Rhaegel is downright mad. Looks like the youngest two will be better off without their mother and yours corrosive influence. Their place is at King's Landing where they'll be taught to become something else than the failures you've set up the others to be. Come to think of it, it might be better for the rest of you, too. After all, Myriah never wanted the boy to be born, did she? I imagine she'll be quite relieved to be rid of him."

A roaring filled his ears. All of a sudden, he couldn't feel his own body. Aegon would do it. He would take the children away to fill their heads with who knew what poison against their parents, shaping them to become everything Daeron and Myriah despised.

A goblet was pushed in front of him. The parchment followed. "Perhaps you've reconsidered?" Aegon inquired.

For a moment, Daeron almost said yes. Then, reason returned. He could never do it. Should he yield, peace and prosperity would be almost unattainable, even if by a miracle the King died as soon as tomorrow. One day, Baelor would inherit a broken kingdom in turmoil. Should he yield, Aegon would realize that he could blackmail him whenever he felt like it. And he would probably take the children away anyway, out of sheer spite.

He brought the parchment closer and reached for the inkstand. Aegon's self-satisfied smirk turned into a snarl when Daeron overturned the inkstand over the parchment, blotting the demeaning declaration into a huge dark stain. "Do as you will," he said, surprised at how composed he sounded. "But whatever you do to me, it won't bring you any gain. I am the Prince of Dragonstone, Myriah of Dorne's husband. One day, my son will be king. A prince of Targaryen and Martell blood. He will build a realm greater than anything bards sing of. He will be all I dream of the Seven Kingdoms, and more."

Aegon's small eyes were trying to leap out of his face. "He will be Dorne on the Iron Throne!" he roared. "And you are a fool for not realizing it. But I won't tolerate this nonsense of peace and conformity any longer. Dorne will bend the knee – and so will you. The dragon takes what he wants!"

He whirled about and strode out, roaring orders. Slowly, as if there was lead in his feet, Daeron went to the door, headed for the main staircase. An escort of guards barred his way. No one was willing to look him in the eye.

The King was nowhere to be seen. A shrill cry arose. Daeron looked up to see Gorman Peake descending the stairs, a squirming bundle slung over his shoulder. From behind, Baelor tried to draw him back. The man swiped his free hand, sending the boy against the railing. Only Baelor's swift instinct to cling to the wood prevented him from tumbling all the way downstairs. A moment later, though, he was back in his place, grabbing Aelinor's outstretched hand to pull her down. Even from where he was, Daeron saw the blood trickling down his temple.

It was terrible beyond anything Daeron had ever seen, yet it was as if he looked at it from a great distance. He saw it all, yet felt nothing, his heart too cold with horror. Ilena Redtree who had accompanied Myriah all the way from Dorne appeared on the top of the stairs. Tears were running down her fair face as she tried to hold her lady back. A man-at-arms in Costayne's colours stumbled downstairs, five nails having left crimson lines on his cheek.

Myriah broke free and none of the guards dared lay hands on her as she ran downstairs, an uncontrollable howl breaking through her lips.

Daeron turned to the open door. The veritable army Aegon had brought had already mounted, ready to leave. The King was just clambering into the wheelhouse. Daeron paid him almost no notice, his eyes fixed on the two small figures in front of two of the men.

Aelinor managed to squirm back and saw Myriah. "Mama!" she cried out. "Don't let them take me away!"

Myriah reached out before crumbling on the floor. Her ladies ran to her.

Not daring to go near, Daeron simply turned and went back to his chambers. The spilled ink was spreading into an ink that threatened to stain the whole table beyond repair. Daeron wondered that he should notice such a small thing.

"They said you let him take them."

Daeron looked up. Baelor stood on the threshold, not quite entering. The blood still trickled all the way from his dark hairline to his cheek. His eyes were fixed on his father.

"Go to have this wound treated," he said.

Baelor instinctively raised a hand to his head, then brought it down. "Is it true? They said that he'd leave Aelinor and Maekar with us if only you signed."

"I had no choice."

Baelor wouldn't look away and Daeron felt that he had spoken too soon, too fast.

"But they said you only needed to sign a declaration," his son insisted. "Isn't it true?"

"Do you know what it was in this declaration?" Now he sounded harsh, defensive.

"I know. I also know that he would have gone to war anyway. Everyone says so. And now he has them. You just gave them to him."

"You think you're so clever, aren't you?" Daeron snapped.

Still, Baelor wasn't afraid. And he was _still_ not looking away. For all his Dornish colouring, he had Targaryen eyes – dark indigo, deep, accusing. Daeron had the disturbing feeling that his son could _smell_ his fear, his guilt.

"Don't look at me like that," he said sharply. "The Seven Kingdoms had to come first. One day, you'll understand."

But it all sounded so empty, so meaningless and petty compared to the disbelief in the eyes of an angry, disappointed ten-year-old who couldn't, didn't want to understand.

Wordlessly, Baelor turned and disappeared down the hallway.


End file.
